


Lady Show Pony

by eldritchbirds



Category: Legacy Trilogy - Cayla Kluver
Genre: Crying, Enigma - Freeform, F/M, Infatuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritchbirds/pseuds/eldritchbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta'd byt the amazing Miss Froo.</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own the Legacy Trilogy or any affilated characters. I only own the unnamed woman.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lady Show Pony

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd byt the amazing Miss Froo.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the Legacy Trilogy or any affilated characters. I only own the unnamed woman.

 

Not for the first time had she woken between her linen bed sheets, covered in sweat and panting, only for confusion to take hold and for tears to track from her cloudy amber eyes to their natural course down her cheeks. The sobs take over her body and she is heaving and convulsing in spasms of grief. The light, silky undergarments suddenly feel all too constricting and she fights to take them off, scratching the soft skin of her neck and stomach in her haste.

 

And suddenly she is bare to the world, cold in the warm summer air, the ghosts of her tears dry on her cheeks and she is bewildered. She looks to the ceiling, eyes roaming the intricately carved marble above her. Small sounds escape her lips, as if she tries to speak, but no comprehendible words leave her, just sounds like questions.

 

\--

 

Her breath hitches in her throat; walking into the royal ballroom unaccompanied for a woman of 35, especially for someone of such noble birth, is unsightly sets bad form. She feels the smooth inner of the bodice against her and hopes that the embarrassed flush is not visible on her skin. She feels as though she is a show horse without a rider; all pretty in her cherry red velvet and ivory silk gown of impeccable taste and great price trimmed with red lace, and yet, she was with no-one to guide her.

 

Bowing in the sudden presence of the young King and Queen, Steldor and Alera, the show pony smiles and exchanges pleasantries, accepting the glass of wine from a passing member of the staff. She sips it tentatively as the pair move away and she is yet again, left to herself.

 

A man brushes past her, the leather jerkin worn on his person is sadly familiar. _London._ She freezes like a startled rabbit, feeling every inch of the styled, auburn hair on her head. He does not give her a second thought, merely brushes her off and follows his charge. Her eyes follow the silver-haired demon.

 

She forgets herself, and scolds herself for her lapse, regaining the façade that she wore, smile bright and yet, terribly fake as she greets the aged members of the royal family and offers her condolences as to the whereabouts of Miranna. They accept graciously and move on to the next people whilst the ever present guards leer at her, as if she is a constant threat.

 

\--

 

She wakes again, in the middle of the night. Her dreams had been plagued by a pair of indigo eyes. She chased him through her dreams, a flash of silver and a glint of indigo before he was gone, and she was running again. She remembered his lean but strong build; he was a scout, leaning into his warmth, his arms around her when they were young.

 

Or was that simply a feverish dream?

 

Memories flash behind her eyelids, but they are distorted. He looks at her with disgust in his eyes. Where he once went to hold, he turns away. Where he once went to help, he went to hinder. Chest rising and falling, she sits in her bed, clutching to sanity on a frail, telling herself that he was never right for her, that he was dangerous, he was never anywhere for long, and he would leave her.

 

But he always came back. Some way or another.

 

\--

 

The King and Queen invite her again, invitation for invitation's sake. She wears a dress of black silk and gold trim, many layers on her usually fragile frame. Her hair is impeccable, styled to perfection by her lady-in-waiting. She is glad for the layers, as they hide the constant shaking of her legs and she walks to greet the members of royalty, and nobility, like herself.

 

She sees him in the crowd, leaning against one of the marble walls, hands crossed over his chest and leather jerkin. Such attire for any other elite guard would be bad conduct, although it has been the way for so long that it is just so for London. Everyone makes exceptions for this enigma of a guard.

 

The thought, as scared of her own thoughts as she is, it calms her; somehow. Her legs do not shake, rather she gains a stride with confidence, and as pitiful as she thinks herself, she walks without fear. She makes small talk with the other ladies of nobility, Alera, Semarin and the like. Each lady soon leaves, and she is left with the young queen. The two talk before they split ways.

 

She walks through the crowd and to the balcony, to take some reassuring lungful's of air. Then she feels a change in atmosphere; she turns and she is in another's presence. It is his presence. He does not look at her, rather at Queen Alera, one balcony over.

 

Amber eyes watch him warily as he is less than a foot from her, and her heart is hammering. Her throat feels dry and the steady buzz of the crowd fades…

 

\--

 

And then it is only them.

 

She is aware it is a dream. She hasn't come this close to him in years, almost 20 now.

 

He's holding her, now, the way she always dreamed he would be.

 

She was not much older than 15, he was a guardsman of 16, _The Scruffy One_ , her mother had once said. He once saved her from being trampled, so calmly offering to help a stranger, a woman, no less, who did not look of noble birth in her attire. After that moment, she knew she was infatuated. It wasn't love, no matter how much she tried to fool herself. Love is for something attainable, whether it is requited or unrequited, she was always aware that she could not love one who did not even know her.

 

His arms were warm, just like she dreamed they would be.

 

Often, she would trick herself into believing he was attainable, that she didn’t know his heart belonged to someone else. That she was the only one who was truly worthy of him. That she was the only one who was infatuated with him.

But it was a trick, none the less.

 

London was a man who could point at any woman and have her, and she knew he would never point at her, for he had turned down Royalty more than once, and his heart did belong to another. Another who was taken from him by marriage but not by love.

 

He tries to protect her, just like she dreamed he would.

 

And yet he can't.

 

He can't protect her from himself, not even in her dreams.

 

She deals with this dream in the only way she knows how.

 

Not for the first time had she woken between her linen bed sheets, covered in sweat and panting, only for confusion to take hold and for tears to track from her cloudy amber eyes to their natural course down her cheeks…

**Author's Note:**

> I think it was appropriate for her to go unnamed. She was basically just fantasising about an unatainable man.


End file.
